


Royston's Very Secret Diary

by spacenaiads



Category: Confessions of Georgia Nicolson - Louise Rennison, Havemercy Series - Jaida Jones & Danielle Bennett
Genre: Epistolary, Gen, M/M, georgia nicolson style au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 12:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12888210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacenaiads/pseuds/spacenaiads
Summary: A day in Royston's utterly crapioso life full of sheer unrelenting misery and poonosity.





	Royston's Very Secret Diary

**Author's Note:**

> A direct continuation of a little ficlet written by reshki.tumblr.com, who's no longer around. I can't find the original post anymore (I don't think it was tagged, which is the problem, but it seems nothing is deleted from that blog), but I copied and pasted the text years ago into a word document, which I've now put on my [google drive](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1tCPIOc9NsxbRPYQelzzXeCJLa3IaJfzJBZxfMwfL3O4/edit?usp=sharing) in case anyone wants to see it. If anyone finds the original post let me know and I'll link to that instead!

**12:00 PM**

Due to Owen’s predictable but nonetheless depressing lack of foresight and inability to see the utter brilliance vis-a-vis my masquerading as an airman plan have been forced to actually go through with this “moving to the arse end of nowhere” poonosity business. Honestly, bastion knows why it’s called Nevers, it should be called Nowheres, because it’s quite literally between Nevers and Nowheres. Ahahaha, you see even in the depths of my depressionosity in my dark night of the soul I am still capable of cracking jokes. I am truly an easygoing ray of sunshine type of person to the core of my being. I must remind Antoinette after that accusation of—what was it? “Unnecessary and frankly tiresome melodramatics”. Yes, that was it.

**12:01 PM**

She might think the reason I have not spoken or so much as hinted that I was aware of her existence the entirety of yesterday is because I have been rather tied up in this cultural-snogging-exchange misunderstanding fandango, but she will find that actually it is top-notch cold shouldernosity work because of that hurtful and inaccurate accusation she hurled at my fragile person. I am a sensitive and delicate artistic type; she could have caused permanent damage to my frail ego that I will never truly recover from.

**12:03 PM**

I may have to phone her up to clue her in on this fact. She can be a bit dim-witted at times.

**12:06 PM**

It will have to wait however, as our Beloved Provost has given me a mere hour to pack. Has he no idea of the time daytime-to-evening coachwear, or evening-to-nighttime comfort coachwear, or what I’ll wear when I make my Grand Entrance in Nevers, not to mention packing for an extended stay in the depths of hell, takes to co-ordinate?

**12:07 PM**

Clearly not, looking at those cuffs on that jacket. He appeared to have a small furry animal stuffed up each sleeve. Possibly a rat or a raccoon or an entire moose or something.

**12:15 PM**

Whatever, Dmitri can shove a dragon up each sleeve for all I care. More important matters are at hand: red waistcoat with the black embroidered orchids and subtle gold stitching around the edges or verdigris silk waistcoat with Ramanthe-style buttoning?

On one hand the red implies sensuality and just the right amount of redbottomosity. On the other the verdigris says “look at me, I am outwardly understated and exquisitely tailored” without going too overboard into tart headquarters or being visible from a 100-mile radius.

**12:19  PM**

After much careful deliberating have come to a decision. The verdigris holds a subtle and nuanced soupcon of Eastern promise. Verdigris it is.

**12:21 PM**

What was I thinking clearly the red waistcoat is the answer. Red.

**12:22 PM**

Verdigris. Was right the first time.

**12:23 PM**

The red’s back on.

**12:24 PM**

Verdigris.

**12:25 PM**

Red.

**12:25 PM**

Verdigris.

**12:26 PM**

Red, and this is it. This is final. I am not changing my mind again.

**12:28 PM**

_Verdigris._

**12:29 PM**

So that’s ¼ of daytime-to-evening coachwear sorted.

**12:30 PM**

Oh _merde_ and utter poo only half an hour left to pack and plan everything else. This is cruel and unusual and surely there must be a law against it somewhere. No time to check now—what shoes go with the verdigris waistcoat?

**1:16 PM**

The minor fur-trimmed Dragongroper has been getting the driver to blow the horn for the past twenty minutes. It’s vair vair distracting when one is deciding which samples of one’s poison ring collection to take. Maybe should just take them all?

**1:18 PM**

Even all squidged in like sardines in the proverbial box they take up an entire travelling case on their own, and that’s without their individual protective cases.

**1:19 PM**

Oh what a hoot he is, the Dragongroper has taken to shouting. He really is terribly uncultured.

“ROYSTON I KNOW YOU’RE TERRIBLY BUSY IN THERE CHOOSING SEASONAL TIES THAT MATCH A MINIATURISED WARDROBE OF A MERE EIGHT CASES OR CO-ORDINATING SHOELACES WITH METALLICS BUT IF YOU’RE NOT DOWN IN THE NEXT FIVE MINUTES BY MY WATCH I WILL GET A PALACE GUARD TO GO IN AND FORCIBLY EVICT YOU.”

Oh, how we laugh together, the pair of us. Shoelaces with metallics? What is he on about. But the joke’s on him because I am done. I have narrowed it down to only twenty-five poison rings, which any deity of moderation would be proud of. I am ready to go.

Time to say goodbye to the house.

**1:21 PM**

Goodbye house. I love you very very much. You have been an excellent house. Really tippity-top on the housing front. Except for that time there was a slight wind and the ceiling for the second living-room caved in. But we fixed that.

**1:24 PM**

Goodbye kitchen. Goodbye first living room. Goodbye hallway. Goodbye secret hidden room at the back of the staircase. Goodbye all the bedrooms. Goodbye bathroom—

And that is when I heard those sweet, honeyed tones from outside:

“ROYSTON I WASN’T KIDDING ABOUT THE PALACE GUARD!”

**1:51 PM**

Saying goodbye to the house really made me all a bit miz, but the cherry on top the craptastic cake of my life is that the Dragongroper wouldn’t even let me say goodbye to my mates, which really was horribly unfair. I begged and begged and wheedled with such raw heartfelt emotion that even a stone would have relented and just given me five minutes with Owen, but he just said, “This is not a taxi service and I’m not carting you about the city so you can have one last gossip about this season’s hairstyles with your friends. There’ll be a phone in Nevers, you can blather away to your heart’s content when you get there. Next time you ask I am going to chain you up next to the horses and make you walk there, so shut it.”

How am I supposed to ignorez-vous Antoinette when I have to keep phoning her up to remind her of it?

**1:57 PM**

The Dragongroper left at the city limits, thank the Lord and all his little angels and various assorted woodland creatures. Just me alone with my thoughts. And the driver and four horses I suppose, but somehow they don’t count.

**2:15 PM**

Oh good, it’s raining. Again.

**2:17 PM**

I needn’t have bothered with transitional coachwear. No-one’s going to see it. It’s raining so hard it’s practically just a vertical river. It’s a metaphor for the utter crapness of my life, like a whatsit. When the weather mirrors emotions. Phalletic prophecy.

**2:18 PM**

Pathetic fallacy, that’s the badger.

**2:20 PM**

Well the pathetico part is accurate, at least.

**2:25 PM**

Thinking about the Lurve Stallion. God he was gorgey. Not gorgey-porgey with a gorgey-porgey-worgey knoblet on top, but still, whoar. He was at least an 8.5. No, an 8.8. And he had really lovely eyes. All sort of sea green and yummy scrumboes. He is all I will have in my mind to last through the long, Stallionless days. Wish I had a photo of him. Maybe in that blue military-style jacket thingy. That was all pretty groovy and mmmmmhhh. Or maybe in nothing at all, ahaha. Oh dear, now I’m thinking of nakedness and the whole ear-nibbling business. Oooooh.

Really, overall the sexy-shenanigan-type situation was vair enjoyable as well as educational. Though there was that whole licking-the-chin fiasco, which may have actually been a mistake on his part. I think he was aiming for my ear but I moved my head at the wrong moment. What do I know though of the passion of the Bigotoese. Perhaps chin-licking is a time-honoured Arlemagne-a-gogo luuuuurve tradition. Perhaps over there you only chin-lick the people you feel real and true affection for. Antoinette would know, but seeing as I am so full of glaciocity that l am basically a human iceberg towards her that’s a no-go. She is dead to me. I could, I suppose, go and ask Josette, but then everyone in Thremedon would know before I’d even put down the phone. It’s all “Oh yes Royston I will absolutely take it to my grave cross my heart I swear on my Talent” and the next second she’s yelling down the street “Oi everyone! Listen up! The lead actor in that _Maelstrom_ thing down at the playhouse got to number 14 ½ on the snogging scale three days ago with the Margrave Royston and he hasn’t called since, do you think he is being a charming elastic-band type of bloke or just a cad and a user?”

**3:21 PM**

Really wish I could have said goodbye to Owen in person though. Maybe he could pay a little impromptu dragon visit? I’m going to miss having my little best pally around.

**6:40 PM**

Technically around this time I should be getting changed from daytime to transitional daytime-to-evening travelwear, but what is the point? No-one is going to see me. Except for the carriage driver, and he is about 87 million years old. What does it matter? What, as the people of Ramanthe used to say, is _le point_? There is no-one to look on enviously now or, by the sounds of it, ever again. I may as well just wear these clothes to make my grand entrance in the backwaters of the backwater. There’s not going to be any new sex gods to impress. Just my brother and bastion-damned Marjorie and the kidlets.

**11:51 PM**

Shall start reading a book to distract myself from Erik. It is called _In The Shade of Jikji._ It is a about an ancient Ke-Han empress generally running about showing joie de vivre and leaving chaos and a string of pining lovers and mysterious deaths in her wake.

**11:58 PM**

Cannot concentrate on some Ke-Han tart right now, my heart is too heavy and full of memories. I think I’ll just have a little zizz to try to forget for a minute.

 **Monday the 25** **th** **of May**

**8:39 AM**

Woken up at the crack of dawn by a bump in the track. Apparently slunkered down in my sleep and now my clothes are all crinkled, but seeing as nothing will ever matter again am not going to change. I am like a wrinkly crinkly old elephant, and I shall simply have to be buried like that because honestly, who could expect me to think of something and mundane and plebeian as a change of clothing at a trying time like this?

Suppose it all depends on if it’s one of those, you know. What you call them. Open casket things. If I’m just going to be dumped in a ditch with a bit of soil sprinkled over the top then who cares, frankly. Definitely not me. But would feel a bit weird under the watchful eyes of the statue of Regina up in the high chapel, Thremedon’s finest weeping, Antoinette bemoaning how she wasn’t a nice good pally to me in my final moments and now I’m gone and she’ll never recover etc etc--and I’m there looking like something the Wilgrave Catherina’s cat dragged in that time during a dinner party.

Serve Dmitri bloody right if I just upped and died right now.

**8:44 AM**

Looking out of the window while the driver feeds the horses their brekkie. Nothing but fields and trees and cluds and birds twittering away for miles around. What a lovely site. Not.

Oh, I tell a lie, there are also some sheep in the paddock next to us. They look vicious. Like vicious demons in furry coats. What’s that thing the devil’s supposed to have—cloven hoofs? Do you see where I am going with this?

**8:52 AM**

Apparently in the excitement of having a visitor the sheep have escaped their paddock through the fence and have come to investigate. The horses are going ballisticimus and the driver is trying to bat them off. One of the bastion-damned bleaters made eye contact at me through the window. I hissed at it.

**9:20 AM**

After that light spot of impromptu comedy we are back on the road to Nevers.

**10:08 AM**

Bloody hell I can see the house. In hindsight have realised I should possibly have planned what I was going to say instead of just relying on my innate brilliance and dashing wit to tide me through. I wonder if there’s a guidebook for this sort of thing? _What to Say to Your Extended Family When Even the Most Benign of Benign Comments From You Results in an Hour-Long Shouting Match On A Good Day_. That’s what it could be called.

**10:14 AM**

The carriage has stopped. Bastion bastion _bastion_. The driver came to open the door for me and I whispered “please take me back to Thremedon. Just get in the front and drive like the wind. Please, I beg you.”

“Get out, mate. I’m not going back to Thremedon. I’m heading for a nice kip in the nearest village.”

I tried harder. “Let us elope together. Oh, please, I realise I do not even know your name, my dear monsieur, but over the duration of our trip together you have grown so dear to me I yearn for your company. I couldn’t bear to be parted—“

And that’s when he grabbed my arm and tugged me out. Honestly, I ask you. Is this the sort of behaviour we should expect from carriage drivers from our fair city? Shocking.

Suddenly I felt something bowl into me at about knee height. A midget?

“Have you _brought_ us anything, Uncle Roy?!” Oh, what utter charmers children are.

On closer inspection, I’d never met this particular demonspawn before, but I was pretty sure she was Emilie, the youngest. I’d sent her a tigerskin rug once. I thought it would annoy Marjorie more than anything else.

Marjorie was looking as fine as ever, if by “fine” you mean “like she’d just stepped in a bit of dog poo”. Which is generally what she looks like around me. She matched my brother, whose face was as red as the proverbial red thing. By which I mean it was very, very red. Like a permanent sunburn. Is that what happens to people in the country? Would it happen to me, eventually? If it did I would have to kill myself.

“I’ve come to be a burden,” I said, displaying my usual wit and humility.

I don’t think they got it.

Oh, this was awful. It wasn’t just them and the kiddies—the whole household staff was out as well. I wondered if I should do a spot of Irish dancing to lighten the tension. Probably not.

Thankfully, Tom launched into introducing the family. I just had to nod along like I was paying attention.  

“Well,” he finally finished off, sixty eons later. I thought my head might fall off from the nodding. “Hal will show you to your room.”

Someone stepped out from the back of the staff.

Oh.

My.

God.

He was gorgey. Like really really gorgey and also _bon_ . He was probably a few inches taller than me, and he had dark hair and these really groovy light blue eyes, like the colour of the sky or the ocean at dawn or something that was blue but also a bit grey. Which they were. His eyelashes were all dark and thick and kind of lighter around the edges and really long and cool, and he had these long limbs like oooh, and _freckles_ , literally freckles everywhere, and he had a mouth and a nose and ears and arms and sides and eyebrows and everything.

“Hello,” he said. To me. “I’m Hal.”

What was I going to do? What did people do in these kinds of situations?

Logically I knew the next step required some kind of involvement from my brain, but seeing as its contribution to the situation so far went something like “nyyyyyghhuuuuhh” that didn’t seem like a good direction to go in. Maybe I could pretend I was mute? But he’d already seen me talking. Oh nooooooo.

“Hello,” I finally managed kind of shakily after about twelve years of trying to connect brain to mouth, which at least was better than what I was thinking, which was “you are deffo a perfect ten on the sex god scale. Maybe a twenty out of ten. _Definitely_ a twenty.” Then I took his proffered hand to shake. Bastion damn it all to hell and back, he had such lovely hands—really smooth and soft and with long thin fingers, but kind of _solid_ at the same time. If you see what I mean. Well, _I_ see what I mean and that’s the important part because I was there, not you.

“Well. We’d better. I’ll show you to your room.” He said, his voice full or gorgeosity and perhaps of hint of mysteriosity, and indicated for me to follow him.

I tried to think of something to say that was light and interesting and amusant and wouldn’t make him think I was certifiably insane, when suddenly a horrible thought struck me. What did I look like?! I tried to get a glimpse of myself in a window as we passed the dining room ( _hideous_ curtains), and what I saw confirmed my worst fears. I looked a mess. No, worse than a mess. My clothes were all crinkled and creasy ( _why_ didn’t I get changed in the carriage?), my hair looked like a herd of woodland creatures had set up shop in it, not to mention my beard needed a comb, and I had horrible dark circles under my eyes. Let’s not even talk about the nose. It was spread out over practically my whole face. I was basically a walking nose.

What was I going to do? What could I do? I tried to run a hand rakishly through my hair in an attempt to calm it down a bit, but my hand got caught up in the wild undergrowth portion and I nearly ripped my head off trying to pry it out. Oh no. Oh nonono. Perhaps I looked roguish and artfully dishevelled? No, I looked like I’d been running through a bush all night. Backwards.

Clearly the only solution was to try and distract him with my charming wit.

I said, “Erghenflagll.”

**10:42 AM**

All aloney on my owney in my room.

Ooh, it was awful. He just sort of looked at me and smiled a little bit (phwoar) but only in a polite way, and said “yes?” and then “Oh, here we are. You’ll be in here.” At which point I practically ran inside, yelled “thanks!!” and slammed the door.

Argh argh arghhh.  

**11:02 AM**

I am going to make a comeback.

**11:03 AM**

Have drafted a plan:

  1. Look amazing (despite the nose situation, which sadly seems like it will _never_ get smaller).
  2. Draft suitable, amusing, safe topics of conversation. (I can’t think of any right now off the top of my head, but I’m sure they exist.)
  3. Wow him with my intellect and dazzling good looks.



See? It’s foolproof.

**11:16 AM**

Still can’t think of any topics of conversation that aren’t “guess why I got exiled??” which is a road I really don’t want to go down. Perhaps could make up daring and dashing exploit worthy of being exiled?

**1:20 PM**

Hmmm. May have to enlist Antoinette’s help. Is high time she put this petty silent treatment behind her. She can be so childish. I shall graciously phone her up and be so very _charmant_ that she will be forced to speak to me and ultimately help me snag myself a Sex God.

**2:53 PM**

Perhaps if I am very _charmant_ she might even forget it was me ignorez-vousing her, not the other way round, which really is a minor detail in the grand scheme of things. However, a minor detail I am sure she would love to bring up at every occasion.

**4:34 PM**

I wonder if it would look nice and groovy if I had kind of like, a dark reddish-brown ombre thing in my hair?

**4:36 PM**

It might even look so amazing it will detract attention from my nose, thus killing two birds with one bird-killy thing: make my hair not look so boring AND sort out the nose situation fandango.

**4:38 PM**

Bugger, where am I supposed to _get_ groovy dark reddish-brown hair dye? I can hardly nip out and ask the sheep to sell me some. Maybe Owen could be convinced to send some over if I asked very nicely? But does Owen even know what ‘ombre’ means? He probably thinks it’s some kind of nocturnal animal.

**7:47 PM**

All this planning and plotting is making me peckish. I wonder which bag I put the midget gems in?

 **Tuesday the 26** **th** **of May**

**10:32 AM**

Woken up at the crack of dawn to the sound of someone being murdered below my window; on closer inspection, was only William and Alexander playing a merry game involving a ball and several pointy sticks. Went back to bed.

**10:50 AM**

This is it. This is the first day of the rest of my life. I’ve got to get cracking. I need to wash my hair and trim my beard and hang my clothes up before they get too crinkled (I was obviously too miz to do it last night) and get dressed and search the desk for any secret compartments where I might hide my books and rings (unlikely though, knowing how boring and utterly plebeian Tom is about these things). _Then_ I am going to get started on Plan ‘Get Self A Sex God’. It is a simple, one pronged attack: all I have to do is find out what Hal does all day, so that I can plan how I might casually bump into him. Ahaha, I am a genius, do you see the genius of this plan?

I must actually find a few safe topics of conversation. Or even a safe topic of conversation, that would be a start.

**12:02 PM**

Ooooh it’s all such hard work, though. On the other foot, I’ve already made such a fool of myself I could just stay in bed for the rest of my natural life and let my beard grow wild and free until woodland creatures start nesting in it and it chokes me, putting me out of my misery once and for all.

No, I really can’t be arsed getting up, I am too upset. Life has beaten me into submission. I shall have to be a hermit. A recluse. The world shall never again gaze upon the beauty of my face. I shall die between these four walls. Nico will realise the error of his ways only too late. “Oh,” he shall weep, beating his breast, “how could I ever have exiled the Margrave Royston and allowed him to come to such a tragic and ignoble fate?? Especially when cerise is in this season and he has a groovy new cerise cloak that perfectly complements his skin tone that he was going to wear to the opera on Friday but no-one ever got the chance to see because of my selfish and foolish decision to exile him. Woe is me!”

**12:36 PM**

Someone’s knocking at my door!

“Enter,” I said weakly, reclining in bed, a single beam of sunlight coming through the curtains falling across my face, highlighting my pallid complexion, my dark circles, my unkempt stubble, the hollow below my cheekbones. I looked practically consumptive.

Oh for the sake of th’Esarina’s left tit, it was Hal!

“Oh,” he said, looking worriedly at me. “Are you alright?”  

 _Nooooo_ , I wanted to say _, stop looking! Leave! I am usually highly, HIGHLY attractive. Stop!_

But I didn’t say that, obviously, because I do not want him to think that I am an idiot. Or superficial. Because I am in fact a very deep person, though he doesn’t know that yet.

“I’ve, erm, I’ve brought you lunch. That is, if you think you’re up to it,” he said. Which was good. Well, good that he’d thought about me enough to bring me food so I didn’t wither away and die, and also because it meant we didn’t all have to suffer through a shared meal, but maybe not so good because Tom had told him to look after me? How am I supposed to know if someone is genuinely thinking about me or not when my idiotic brother is there, telling him to do it (maybe)?

“Thank you, please leave it on the desk,” I said, which was much better than what I was thinking, which was _oh my god oh my god nooo I promise my hair doesn’t usually look like it’s been electrocuted_ and _I wonder if he’d notice if I slid completely under the covers until he left?_

“I’ll be back later for the bowl. Are you sure you don’t want me to go fetch the cook? She’s quite handy with medicines--”

“It’s just a cold,” I said, with maybe a touch too much glaciosity.

“Alright, well. If you need anything…”

“Thank you,” I said quickly, and he finally, finally left.

**12:46 PM**

Have been thinking, and have come to the conclusion that there is really nothing to be done to salvage the situation. Have officially made a royal mess of it. Life is _pointless_. I may never comb my beard again. Am going to stay in bed for the rest of eternity, starting now.

**1:02 PM**

You know whose fault this is? _Erik’s_. If bloody Erik hadn’t come in with his Bigots-a-Go-Go accent and marvy snogging skills I would still be in Thremedon, enjoying myself gaily in the sunshine with all of my little pallies. I hate him.

**1:02 PM**

It’s been raining for the past week solid in Thremedon, but I wouldn’t even let that ruin my sunshine-enjoyment.

**3:30 PM**

Oh, I am so bored, I have done nothing all day but lay in bed looking consumptive and tragic. I’m going to go play with my poison ring collection or read a book or something, else I shall go mad.

**4:12 PM**

Can’t concentrate on anything. Am going back to bed.

**9:14 PM**

Just had a thought: clearly I look awful and the Sex God thinks that I am suffering some sort of horrible illness, but this could work in my favour!

Royston’s Frankly Astonishing and Amazing Plan Beta:

  1. Lie around in bed acting weak and consumptive and tres tragico (not much acting required on that front, really. Am feeling quite peaky, what with everything that has been going on. But I shall put on a brave face). Let my beard grow wild and free. Well, not ALL wild and free, I don’t want to choke myself in it, but wilder and free-er than usual. Stay locked up in room like the proverbial hermit. Go off food.
  2. Sex God, being the sweet and caring person he is, gets worried about me. Somehow convince him that I’m just lonely and need a bit of company (ie, from a certain sex god).
  3. Begin startling recovery. Sex God will think it is all due to him, and as well be suddenly aware of how v. attractive and witty and clever, etc etc I am.
  4. I snag myself a sex god.



How could it possibly go wrong?

**10:33 PM**

Sex God is knocking at my door. Commence Plan Beta. Places, places!

**10:40 PM**

Well that went truly marveloso, even if I do say so myself.

Picture the scene: me, in bed, fast asleep (ha!), the covers fitfully thrown off, worn out from a hard day of being in the pits of depression in a foreign land (ish. I mean technically Nevers is in Volstov, but also technically the tomato is a fruit), as well as battling an unknown and mysterious illness. Moonlight pours through the gap in the curtains, illuminating the disarray of the rest of the room--a suitcase, strewn with various items of clothing and poison rings.

There is a timid knocking once more. A moment of silence and the door creaks open a little.

“Margrave?” whispers Hal in that groovy way he has. All, you know. Whispery. And then, “oh,” which must have been when he’d seen that I’d finally fallen to a restless slumber in the depths of my despair. I peeked out from under my eyelashes then. He was all backlit from the hallway light. His silhouette was, unsurprisingly, gorgey.

And then he quietly went to retrieve the bowl and and left again, shutting the door quietly behind him.

As you see it was a triumph, darling, a triumph!

**10:45 PM**

Why have I never considered a career in acting before? I must look into it when I get back to Thremedon.

**10:52 PM**

I am sooo hyped up, I am never going to be able to nod off n--zzzzzzzzzzz

 **Wednesday the 27** **th** **of May**

**8:04 AM**

I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, ohmygiddygod I’m going to die, I’m going to die before I ever make something of myself, and no-one’s going to know of my untimely demise (well, no-one who matters), all aloney on my owney in the country, with nothing but the sheep and the trees and the Sex God--

Nevermind, my nose is just clogged up with snot.

**8:07 AM**

Bastion fuck I have the world’s worst headache, it’s like a dragon thumping its tail against the inside of my skull. Thump thump. Thump. THUMP.

**8:08 AM**

My eyes feel like they’ve been sandpapered. Why, God. Why.

**8:11 AM**

No, I cannot believe that this has happened. It’s the universe with it’s, what’s it called. Things going around and coming around and going around and whatever. Karma. You see, I thought I could just play-act at being sick, but the universe thought I was a mean horrible fake sort of person and has actually made me sick.

I hate my life.

 


End file.
